The Hearth wanted every awake Hand’s builder name for the Roll, and the Roll was the one place in the Hold where a name became a fact. Idrin had read that sentence in Tallow’s clean hand on the first day of the season, and he had thought at the time that it was the most reasonable thing the Chamber had ever written. He thought so again now, climbing the Mound’s path in the early afternoon with the Hearth’s register under his arm and the wind pulling at the collar of his coat.
He had come as a Warden comes, plainly, without Forms. He had said so to Tallow at the gate. Tallow had written it down.
The garrison had gone back to the barracks after the burial, and the Mound was quiet except for the grey stone at the top of the rise and the grey figure sitting on it. Mourner did not turn round as he came up. She had her hands on her knees and her face turned toward the lower quay, where the marsh-smoke was rising pale off the water, and the sun on her cheek showed the iron-bright line of Sella’s bone-wire where the wax had split.
